Promised You A Miracle
by onus.probandi
Summary: It was always surmised that Keats took Louise Gardiner's soul that day in the alley. What happened afterward? This drabble examines their peculiar, raw yet phlegmatic chemistry. Rated M for dub-con scenarios and mild S&M. Please R&R...first timer here. :


Jim Keats was, by all accounts, a charming, inocuous, slightly anal-retentive colleague who never hesitated to play the policing game to the letter, always crossing his 't's and dotting his 'i's. His love of the law was evident and permeated every move he made. It made him, in the very least, annoying to Gene Hunt, while respected by Alex Drake. To Louise Gardiner, however, he was one of the only people she trusted-before, at Fenchurch East when she was under their protection, and now in his department at Scotland Yard. She'd been so grateful for his guidance, his confidence, and his interest in her future career with the Met. For the first time, she felt understood and that at least one person in the force felt she still had so much more to give. This was the second chance she'd hoped for, and she was ecstatic. And dead. And forsaken.

She'd been intentionally compromised: her last breath taken from her by him without her consent, and when she woke up, she was in a completely different place. It was London, but not the London she left. She remembered Terry...Gene, Alex...Chris...a green van-which quickly fast-forwarded to clouds, the tops of the buildings around her, and PAIN. A cold, terrible, unyielding pain which coursed through her head...trying to speak but feeling suffocated by the warm, metallic liquid which filled her mouth. And then, a gentle voice, a comforting embrace. She felt herself falling asleep; she tried fighting it, but the power of it all overwhelmed her. The pain left her body and she drifted off into a deep slumber, so peaceful, so warm. When next she opened her eyes, the street was deserted: she was alone, and it was growing dark. Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her, and as she slowly turned her head, she saw a shadow coming towards her. His gloved hand reached out to her, and as she tried to lift her head, he spoke in dulcet, hushed tones: "It's all right; you're safe now. Come, let me help you to your feet."

She immediately worried about her mum, and he allayed her fears, putting a comforting arm round her, all the while assuring her she'd speak to her soon. Before she knew it, he had a position already waiting for her with the promise of fast promotion and being on her own once she'd learned the ropes. Jim Keats was grooming her to be his protege, and she fell in step with him quickly. After all, DCI Wilson had thrown her to the dogs without the slightest care as to her well-being, and Keats would save her from all that. She felt secure, safe in his presence. He'd even given her her own private suite in the dormitories next door so she wouldn't be far away.

The evenings spent assisting him, sorting through profile after profile of prisoners on the lam in the city was tedious work which required intense concentration and time. It was no surprise, then, that her strange, unexplained feelings of close connectivity to him deepened as they bonded in their surroundings, and soon, those early evenings became late nights. Drawn in deeply by him, the stirrings she began to feel increased until one night she gave in and he allowed it without hesitation.

After this, the days grew into weeks and the weeks turned into months, with every day beginning and ending the same way until she was more than his protege-she was a slave.

The charming, affable, professional demeanour dropped the moment he removed his horn-rimmed glasses, locking the door behind him, and she found herself almost clawing at him for emotional contact. Oh, he never denied her physically-some nights she wished he'd lock her inside that room for days on end-but it was mostly devoid of real intimacy.

Breathless, she'd pull against the grips he had her wrists bound in as his lips fell just millimetres from hers. His eyes half-closed, the long black lashes a contrast to his pale skin, he breathed in every living exhale she made, making them his once more, not allowing her to escape his grasp a second time. She wanted his mouth on hers so intensely she'd plead, and it was the most satisfying to him to see her so powerless and so dependent on him for her pleasure. For him, corporeal sex was enjoyable at times, but not as gratifying as seeing her writhe underneath him. She wanted to be made love to properly; she wanted him to desire her. Her frustration would only be assuaged when he'd finally enter her, relieving her tension again and again until she was satiated, out of breath, and too exhausted to say anything. He'd loosen her restraints and press an open-mouthed kiss to her wrists, the most emotion she would wring out of him, and soon she would be asleep.

He was never there when she woke up, and when she'd reach his office to begin the day, he'd be composed once again, sipping tea out of his cup as if nothing more had occurred. He would, however, when she wasn't aware, notice the slightly-red friction marks that encircled her wrists; his eyes would darken and a smug, self-satisfied smile would creep across his countenance. Everything he was doing was part of his greater plan: the more bound to him he could make her, the more she'd acquiesce to anything he'd ask her to do for him. She was weak-willed; that bit was certain, especially after her failed undercover mission to take down the Staffords and the Stockholm Syndrome she'd incurred as a result. He wouldn't make her beg forever for his touch or his kiss, but denying the inevitable only made her more valuable, her mind more pliable, her body more desperate.

Soon, the only decisions, the only choices she would have would be the ones he gave her. And, better yet, she wouldn't mind. Keats knew what he was doing; he was the Archangel of Deceit.

Several months later, she was a permanent fixture in his office. The promotions never came, and her mother never called. Not that she'd noticed.

_"Louise...,"_ Jim said, not looking up from the docket he was perusing. _"Tea, please." _An almost emotionless, steely expression on her face, Louise got up from her desk, sauntering past him as she headed to the back of the room. Pouring the tea into a cup, she handed it to him. Without looking at it, he took a sip and promptly spat it out into the bin. _"__Darjeeling,__ Louise."_

That evening, he guided her silently up the stairs and down the winding hallway to her room, opening the door with her key. She hadn't been in possession of the key to her room for quite some time, nor had she been in possession of a room telephone; he'd taken both away with little complaint from her. Closing the door behind him, he locked the deadbolt firmly into place. Not taking his eyes off of her, he slowly removed his glasses and put them in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Louise shuddered as he moved towards her and wordlessly traced the outline of her jaw with his cool hand, observing her reaction and the way she shakily exhaled, closing her eyes as she did.

He backed her up against the wall and lowered his head to meet hers. He closed his eyes and inhaled her scent in an almost predatory manner before slowly disrobing her. Every time his hands brushed her skin, she whimpered softly in frustration. _"Patience, Louise,"_ he breathed. Placing his hands on her arms, he pulled her from the wall and moved her to the bed. The black satin sheets contrasted sharply from the deep-red walls of her room, the large armoire at the far corner casting a long shadow over her naked body as he stared at her, taking her in as he undressed. _"Jim...,"_ she pleaded. Quietly shushing her, he moved over her and breathed into her ear: _"I don't like having to remind you which teas I prefer."_ As he spoke, he placed her wrists back into the bonds that he'd affixed to the headboard and tightened them almost savagely, making her gasp out loud. She knew the consequences of going against Keats' wishes, yet subconsciously wanted them at the same time. He traced a single line between her breasts, his dark eyes hooded with greed, coldly boring holes into hers. "Tell me." His voice was low and angry. _"Please...,"_ she breathed softly. _"Please what, Louise?"_ He tilted his head, a mocking, disgusted expression on his face. She could barely whisper, her voice tight. Immediately and without mercy, he fulfilled what she could not ask. She opened her lips to scream, but he silenced her with his own; a motion so unlike him, so uncharacteristic, so unexpected that she moaned loudly, arching her back to gain more contact. He broke apart from her, grabbing a fistful of her light brown hair. _"__QUIET.__"_ She closed her eyes and softly exhaled as his hands pinned her arms, preventing her from loosening them. He was relentless, powerful, impervious. Resting his forehead upon hers, beads of sweat poured off of both of them as he slid his hand down her arm and finally, achingly finished her, eliciting his own release. When they'd both recovered, he freed her and at once her hand flew up to the dark, damp curls on his head. She could still feel him inside her, silently thankful. He flinched slightly, grabbing her hand, the hint of a victorious smirk turning up the corner of his mouth. _"That's enough," _he said as he grazed her wrist with his teeth, still watching her changing expressions. He loved the control, and clearly, so did she. She couldn't bear to be without him, even sabotaging evidence for him so that Hunt would remain unaware as to his whereabouts. _So much for a second chance, _he noted laughingly. She was his to use, to abuse, to coerce; and soon she'd be in the lift with him forever. He didn't think she'd mind the heat.


End file.
